Colours
by reachingforthestardust
Summary: It's almost beautiful, He muses, in a twisted sort of way, in the same way that a lion stripping flesh from a zebra is a wondrous sight to behold. (Season 7 canon divergence - Godstiel)


**Red – Blood**

He can feel it, can feel it sliding through His fingers thick and warm, He can Hear it dripping onto the floor, dark drops of a liquid not meant to be spilled, least of all by Him. It's almost beautiful, He muses, in a twisted sort of way, in the same way that a lion stripping flesh from a zebra is a wondrous sight to behold. He also finds it amusing in that the liquid so vital to life is ultimately the end for so many – whether by clots or disease or simply bleeding out until there's nothing more to be liberated.

He narrows His eyes, and the blood is gone, gone from His fingers and the floor, thrown into an alternate reality already soaked in death and destruction. He likes to refer to that place as 'What Could Have Been'. The blood is physically gone, He knows, but for some reason there's an echo of it painted streaked across the walls of His mind, drying into a stain that won't disappear no matter how much He scrubs at it. It reminds Him of a story He read once, about a girl trapped in a castle with a key that couldn't be cleaned of blood that had been intended as a warning, and He laughs. The sound is bitter, and it falls flat in the room He's standing in, the vibrations absorbed by the bloodless corpses. He can hear His own insanity in the perverted expression of joy, but He just laughs harder.

He laughs because that coat of blood would not be the last, just as the girl was not the first to use that key, and soon the stain would be damp and dripping again, with beads of blood oozing down crumbling walls and then, then He would pour oceans of blood over it, just to make sure the stain got the message that warnings were irrelevant. He followed His own path.

"Dry all you want, little stains. There's plenty more where you came from, and I will take it all in the end."

**Orange – demanding of attention**

He stands silhouetted against the orange glow of a sinking sun, stands atop a hill, where He knows His figure will be most awe-inspiring to the masses below Him. He is imposing, and His shadow looms across the horde as they tremble in fear. He knows they are afraid, because He can smell their terror, can feel it in their hearts, and it saddens Him. They should not be scared; they should be in love with Him. He curls His lip in distaste. Humans were always getting things wrong; He was not here to kill them, no, He was here to show them His favour. Why can't they understand that? All He asks in return for purging their world of sin is love, but apparently that is a price they either cannot or will not pay.

A crying child at the front of the crowd catches His attention. Her shrill cries are fear evinced, and draw eyes away from Him with each new scream as she calls for her mother, who she is yet to realise is never coming back. Her mother was a sinner, He thinks with disgust. She had no right to corrupt her child in such a way, and so He had removed her. And yet again, the humans were not grateful. He walks over to her, the people splitting before Him just as the waters had once parted for Moses, and presses two fingers against her forehead, rendering her mute.

The crowd cowers away from Him, but He has returned their focus to Him. He smiles. He will give them another chance, because He is beautiful, and merciful. He had sacrificed much for humankind and He would continue to do so, no matter the cost to Himself.

"I am your new God. I walk among you as my predecessor did not, and I will aid those who are faithful to me, as my predecessor did not. He cared only for those who dwelt in the past, and as one could assume, we are in the past no longer. I respect the past, but now is not the time to think back upon memories of what once was. We must embrace the present, and the future, and I am both. I am your future, and I am love and faith and glory. So follow me, children, love me, and have faith in me, because I will make the world a field for all to reap."

**Yellow – betrayal**

Anger coiled in His stomach, or maybe it was merely the Leviathan, but even if it was, it was not of import, because He knew that He was full of wrath. And He had every right to be. He had been betrayed, turned on by those whom He had called friends and considered family. He had done nothing to warrant such actions! He was the victim, the puppy kicked and thrown into the street with nought to fall back to but Himself.

He had given everything to them, all of what He had been and all of what He was. Why could they not see that? Why were they so blind to His affections that they tried to tear Him apart? They refused to trust Him, called Him 'insane' and 'broken'. They had tried to trap Him in a circle of fire, but He was no longer an angel and the ruse failed. He was so much more, and He gave them His all, but still they tried to kill Him.

Oh, He had every right to be angry, to smite them until they had never existed, removed from existence and only He would ever know the difference. But He did no such thing, because He was merciful, and as such would bestow mercy upon those who had betrayed Him, and He would return their harsh, misguided words with kindness and love, with gentle prayers for their damaged souls. He would do that, because He was a puppy, and a puppy will forgive His masters for many cruelties. Even when that cruelty had involved invoking Death himself to try and remove Him, He was still kind. He allowed them their life, though they would not give Him that.

However, a puppy would only take so much taunting before it would turn on those whom it loved dearly, and so would He. And He loved them dearly, but their words were poison. He would give them more chance, but not too many. He prayed that they would soon forget their hatred and come to love Him, because that was all He desired from them.

"One can only be stabbed in the back so many times before stabbing back," He murmured to their unconscious bodies. "Remember that when you see me next."

**Green – rotting**

He scowled at the mirror, at the all-to-human face that He wore like a child wore a mask on Halloween. It glared back at Him, eyes full of blame and wrath. This was not supposed to happen! He was God, and God did not peel, did not develop festering wounds. No, it was not possible, He decided. No doubt it was another of their tricks, a ploy to try and force Him to release the Purgatory souls. His vessel was more than capable of holding all of that immense power; after all, it contained Him didn't it? And was He not the most powerful being in the entire universe?

A thought grew in His mind that it was the feather that broke the camel's back, but He dismissed it, just as He did the other. He didn't like to think about the other, the thought that whispered in the dark, for it had a sting of truth that He could not ignore. But even so, He couldn't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, His vessel was rotting to match His grace.

**Blue – cold**

The world was burning, or at the very least it seemed to be from where He was standing. Flames roared about His head as they devoured houses with all the ferocity of a wolf on a hunt. Smoke filled the air, thick and reminiscent of days in which smoke had meant demons, but He had long since removed that particular blight from the world. Now the smoke just choked the last breaths of those who had once been His closest friends. He had found it fitting, for their life had begun with a house on fire, and so should it poetically end in fire. The elder would not save the younger from the hungry flames this time, because this time there would be no escape. They had had their last chance.

Despite the bloodthirsty fires and the heat that would have been described as 'suffocating' if there had been humans nearby to perceive it, He felt cold. It was strange, because really, it wasn't a feeling at all related to the temperature, because he had no need to feel warm or cold. But even if He did feel the cold, He should not have been feeling it standing in the midst of a burning kitchen as green eyes full of pain glazed over at last, in a final death that was long overdue.

No, He decided, this was a chill more closely associated with His soul, and He supposed it was a reminder of all that He was losing as the roof of the house finally collapsed and hid from His sight two broken bodies that had harboured two damaged souls for far too long. He felt their souls flee to the relative comfort of Heaven, and felt them settle into their respective memories, stuck forever in an endless loop of the time before He ascended.

It hurt that they had no respect or love for Him after He became more, but even then they still, or at least the elder, had memories of them laughing together, drinking and smiling. He too remembered that night fondly, and the cold feeling intensified, until it was like ice was crawling through his veins. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, and when He checked His limbs they were as functional as they had been when they belonged to another.

The feeling didn't leave.

**Indigo – mourning**

Oh, if only they had listened to Him that last time! Maybe then He would not have been forced to burn their souls from their bodies, leaving nought behind but ashes and soured memories of better times. They were gone now, and He yearned for their present like a mother yearns for her lost child. He desperately missed the comfort that their presence had always brought, even when their words were cruel and malicious, even when they had hated Him.

If He were a more arrogant God, he would not admit that He missed them, but He did, and He did not deny the feelings, for once channelling more of the younger brother than the elder. He mourned them, but gave Himself thanks for creating such beautiful creatures as they had been (there was no predecessor anymore, only him and his children. The other was gone, erased from existence, because he was no longer needed. He was remembered only by Him, but to His children it was like a faded painting had been covered by a vibrant photograph).

There was no official memorial or funeral for the others, but He thinks that they would've preferred His method. After all, was it not a 'hunter's funeral' anyway, salted and burned away from prying eyes? But that meant that there were no gravestones to lay flowers upon, so instead He wrote their names into the stars, shifting Hell, Heaven and Earth for them just as He'd always promised He would.

**Violet – death**

Millennia had passed since first He had ascended into His full power, years that He was proud of, for He had achieved great things. And now He was old, even by His standards and ancient in more ways than one. Civilisations had been raised, stomped on, reborn and nurtured into blooming before being destroyed once more. It was the cycle of the universe, although He always imagined it more as a tornado, spinning in apparent endless circles that get smaller the closer to reality they come, and it was almost touching the ground.

Galaxies had blacked out one by one as the stars expanded and condensed in fiery heat and icy cold, leaving behind nothing but darkness. He was all that remained, well, Him and the other ancient entity that had existed alongside him as the stars blinked out. Together they had outlasted everything, all that His father (He had remembered His affection for His creator when the last star had died) had created.

He thought of many things in His last moments. He thought of bees, supernovas, oceans and faces. Oh yes, most of all, He remembered faces that had always stayed with Him, two in particular. Two brothers, one all glorious angles and light, the other more refined and dark, but both beautiful, and they had fought with Him and against Him, loved Him and hated Him, had made Him who He was. He missed the first more, missed his jokes and his stories, his strange references that He still didn't understand. But He missed them both, and He regretted their fate, though it was far too late now to return to the past and fix His mistakes. It was far too late, because He could see Death waiting, still wearing his black suit and walking with a silver-tipped cane. He wondered vaguely about Death's destiny, as he was neither living nor dead, but there was no longer time for philosophy.

"It's time, isn't it."

"Yes. Do you have any last words?"

"No words that would make a difference anymore. Those with whom I would speak to have long since faded."

"Oh, words always make a difference, whether those they are intended for can hear them or not, don't worry about that."

"I doubt I will."


End file.
